#aLSO HAPPY BELATED BDAY ALLANNN (march 18)

[bloody-trio]

Typewriter

An Allan Crowell short story.

The soft clicks of the type writer were loud, a tad too loud for the redhead's liking.

There sat Allan Crowell, the Poet, eyes focused on the brand new typewriter his friend Nicolas had gifted him for his birthday and, even tough it had been a few days since he was gifted such an expensive and useful machine, he just couldn't bring himself to liking it.

Something about it was a little too mechanical, too souless for him, a man who would nothing less but his whole sould into his medium of art so he stayed still, looking at it's perfect letters and how it would -ding!- when finishing a sentence, analyzing every detail of the typewriter. It's not like he'd never seen one, his father kept one in his study, altough he was never allowed to touch it, let alone write so he mantained his distance so now having one himself just made him feel like his father, distant and cold and that was the least he wanted for his poems, to feel machine generated, too generic for what he was conveying, it just made him think of hid poems like writing something commercial, to sign and use as a contract with art and not bond with it.

Yet he couldn't help but keep it, surely he could just give it back but he would feel terrible, specially knowing that getting tjings like this was a massive luxury in the manor, he tought of gifting it but Gabriel finding out would break the blonde man's heart so he discarded the idea almost inmediately, with a sigh, Allan stood up from the hard wood chair provided for him by the manor and fell into his bed, running his usually gloved hands through his hair, messing up any attempt he did earlier to look more presentable throughout the day. He just layed there staring up at his ceiling as he slowly sat up on his bed, looking at the selfish machine, oh so eager go taje his job and he gave in. Walking over to the typewriter and beggining to press it's soft key caps.

After a couple hours of scrapped ideas, feelings and words, he finally left the table, a single piece of paper now infront of him as he read for noone but himself.

Cuántas veces, amor, te amé sin conocerte y tal vez sin quererte,

sin reconocer tu mirada, sin mirarte, centaura, en regiones contrarias, en un mediodía quemante:

eras sólo el aroma de los amores que amo, el mensaje aberrante de aquella paloma fue en vano

De ti estoy enamorado"